Corrosion of the Soul
Deception is a cruel act. It often has many players on different stages that corrode the soul.
-Donna A. Favors
Shaking fingers press themselves sharply into the keypad; slowly but firmly. Determined. The number of the universe.
Two rings. A short space of time that feels like eternity.
"Hello?" A soft, feminine answer tinged with just a hint of surprise. They probably don't get a lot of phone calls, Sherlock suspects.
"It's me," Sherlock says uselessly. "I... I need your help. Put him on."
The Doctor understands; he himself has disappeared into his story before. Their plans are laid meticulously; it needs to look like Sherlock is definitely dead. Too many enemies will search for him if there is the slightest doubt.
The Time Lord doesn't understand about John, though, which frustrates Sherlock. Why can't he see that, in a way, this is for John? This is to protect them both. He tries to explain this without success. "Surely we can tell him afterwards," the Doctor presses. "You can't let him continue to think that you're dead."
"I can and I will," Sherlock retorts. "John is the most convincing part of this plan. It will be his grief that will make this believable, and I'm afraid he is not a very good actor."
"How long must we keep him in the dark for?"
Sherlock's reply is a shrug. "As long as it takes," he says. "Two months, maybe three. Moriarty's second in command will be the biggest threat, and I'm willing to bet there will be snipers instructed to take me down upon his death. Once they're dealt with, I can tear down their organisation as easily as kicking down a tower made of playing cards."
"Will you let us help?" Rory asks.
Sherlock doesn't even pause to consider it. "No," is his instantaneous reply. "This is my battle." It already feels like cheating to ask the Doctor for this much help.
When the time comes for them to implement their plan, the Doctor stops Sherlock before he steps out onto the roof. "Remember, don't jump if there's another way out. Saving you is not a guarantee; I'd prefer not to try it unless absolutely necessary."
Sherlock bobs his head in agreement. "I'll try. But if I do have no other option, I'll be taking him with me, so don't get him in the teleportation beam. He's not the sort of person you want in the TARDIS."
The Doctor wants to argue, but Sherlock's mouth is firm and he knows that it's not his place.
Then Sherlock exits the TARDIS, watched by three pairs of eyes. "You're going to let him kill Moriarty?" Amy asks once he's left.
"Yes," the Doctor sighs, although his frown makes it clear he doesn't like it. "It's the only way he'll be safe." He closes the door and turns back to Amy and Rory. "This time it's his call."
Sherlock's words echo through the TARDIS. Amy's eyes are fixed on the screen, where a lone figure stands erect on the rooftop. His coat flaps around him, his bearing is tall and proud. Tears are streaming down her face as she listens to Sherlock's emotion-filled goodbye. She knows that, behind her, the Doctor's listening to Sherlock's words, but when she glances over at him his face is hidden by the teleportation cannon.
Moriarty's suicide had been unexpected, and it had shocked her, but she was still hopeful they could pull this off. In fact, his death had probably made things easier.
Then she hears the codeword in Sherlock's "suicide note", and she's instantly on her cellphone to Rory. He answers it after the first ring.
"Hello?"
"Go, go, go!" she yells down the line, perhaps a bit too loudly in her worry. She adjusts the screen to watch her husband-in-disguise cycle past John, knocking him to the ground in the process. "This is a crucial part," Sherlock had told them. "John mustn't notice anything. He can't have any doubts that I died."
"Don't you dare miss," Amy tells the Doctor, although he's concentrating so hard that she can't be sure whether or not he hears her.
She has to look away from the screen as Sherlock falls from the building; she just can't bring herself to watch. The next thing she hears is a whooshing noise as Sherlock lands none-too-gently on the carefully-positioned matress. She lets out a relieved sob.
"Turn it off!" the Doctor tells Amy urgently. "Turn off the screen! We can't see what happens next."
She does as he asks, but doesn't mention to him that she gets a glimpse of what happens. Some things he doesn't need to know, she thinks.
Sherlock springs up from the mattress, eager to be off, just as Rory walks back through the door. Amy rids him of his disguise and then they're off.
They go to Molly's first, to let her know the plan and tell her what she'll have to do once Sherlock's body is brought to the morgue. She's a little shocked for a moment when Sherlock explains that the Doctor is a time-travelling alien, but she pulls herself together with admirable speed.
"You don't deserve her," Amy says to Sherlock, once they've left.
"I know," he tells her. And he does know.
They journey to the Gusting Temple on the Planet of the Seven Winds. "No one in the universe can fake death better," the Doctor assures Sherlock. "You'll be killed with the best technology available, and there's a very low risk of Molly being unable to revive you."
Once their business there is complete, they return to Molly's to give her the antidote to the poison that will make Sherlock appear as though he's dead.
Then it is time.
Rory, being a nurse, administers the injections. He's quick and professional, but Sherlock finds himself wishing that it was John thrusting the needle in. He did like Rory, but he would've trusted John to poison him much more. "Five minutes," the Doctor tells him.
Five minutes and Sherlock Holmes will die.
They get into position and watch as Sherlock jumps once more, although Sherlock can't be sure whether that's actually what happened or whether it's a trick of his now-blurry vision. Rory, Amy and the Doctor observe silently as he disappears into thin air, even though Sherlock is out cold by this time. Then, before John can look up from where Rory has knocked him down, the Doctor teleports Sherlock's unmoving body to only a few metre above the ground, before letting him fall.
When John manages to scramble to his feet and stumble over to where his flatmate lies, Sherlock is, for all intents and purposes, dead.
He opens his eyes to see nothing but a blur of colours, something that panics him immensely. He, above everyone else, relies on his sight far too much to handle impaired vision. However, he's fortunate; it only takes a few seconds before shapes begin to form before him.
He realises Molly is standing over him. "Sherlock," she says, the relief in her voice tangible. "You're awake. Of course you are. You knew that already. Obviously."
"Did it work?" he asks.
She gets what he means instantly. "Yes," she tells him. There's a moments silence before she adds, "He's quite upset, you know. John, I mean. He thinks you're dead."
"That seems a reasonable conclusion," Sherlock murmurs, sitting up. He has to blink hard to stop the room from spinning.
"Can't you tell him?" Molly asks. Why must people ask stupid questions? Sherlock thinks. He has to fight down his annoyance before it becomes visible. John would approve of that, he thinks to himself.
"No," he says. He doesn't possess the patience to elaborate.
"Your friends left you some things," Molly says, pointing to a backpack by the door. "I haven't looked."
"It wouldn't matter if you had." Sherlock lets out a grunt as he swings his feet onto the floor. He attempts a standing position, but his muscles are still too weak and he simply collapses back onto the soft mattress. Molly has to fetch the bag for him.
The consulting detective finds various useful things in there, along with a couple of gadgets that he's sure will help him once he figures out what exactly they are. The items he does recognise include several alien devices used for altering appearances, a signal-less tracking bug, and a laser that Sherlock knows can cut through most solids.
There is also a new cell phone with a note attached. 'Tell him,' the messy black scrawl says. Sure enough, when Sherlock opens the contacts, there are only two. One is listed simply as 'DOCTOR', while the other number is John's.
He scrolls down to the contact and allows himself the luxury of resting his finger on the 'call' button. He wishes briefly that he could just press it, but before he can, reality returns and reminds him of the things he must do before he can contact John again.
If Molly's surprised when, ten minutes later, Sherlock lurches out of the spare bedroom using her bedside table as a crutch, she hides it well. "Work to do, Molly!" he calls to her over his shoulder as he hobbles out the door, his legs still unsure whether they're made out of muscle or jelly. "Criminals to catch!"
She should probably have stopped him, she muses, but she doubts she could have managed it.
Besides, she thinks she might know why he's in such a rush. After all, Moriarty's crime syndicate is the only thing standing between Sherlock and his old life.
Moriarty's gang is all that stands between Sherlock and John, and with that sort of motivation, it will be a very short time before they've been eradicated.